Reinforced
by dormiensa
Summary: Prompt: "Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?/Just a cage of rib bones and other various parts/So it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess" from Ingrid Michaelson's "Breakable"


She normally liked to sleep with the window open. The fresh air calmed her and cleared her mind of the day's clutter. But not tonight.

It was long past midnight. Dawn was not far away. And the usually soothing night breeze was keeping her up by letting in lightning rays of moonlight through the curtains.

She couldn't sleep. She couldn't sleep because her heart was too full.

He had finally said the three little words she had been longing to hear: "Can I stay?"

He never stayed, always finding some excuse to leave or to send her out of his bed after the happy glow had passed. A physical relationship had come soon after they had called a truce and agreed to let go of the past and start afresh. It wasn't hard to admit, to herself at least, that she had been equally attracted to as repelled by him in school. He had been an arrogant bully, but he challenged her like no other. She had felt a true sense of accomplishment every time she proved she was just as good if not better than him. And so, a few shared dinners had quickly escalated to shared space on a bed. But it always ended with the loss of warmth soon after.

In an unguarded and slightly inebriated moment, she had extracted the truth from him: for days after she and her friends had escaped from Malfoy Manor, he'd had the same nightmare: she suffered horribly under his crazy aunt's Unforgivable, but instead of her prone form lying on the sitting room floor, he saw her lying unmoving and bloodied in his bed. She may have been a bossy, fearless, overachieving, in-your-face swot who exasperated him to no end at school, but she did not deserve such treatment. In spite her constant successes at disproving much of his instilled ideas about Muggle-borns, he had, slowly and grudgingly, come to respect her for her spirit.

He admitted he was a light sleeper, had always been. So, he knew he would wake before her. The thought of seeing her, unconscious, beside him in bed terrified him, even though he knew, rationally, that the circumstances were completely different.

She wasn't sure what had happened to change his mind, but they had reached a turning point.

She knew that the one belief he still retained from the polluting quagmire of ideas that Voldemort spouted was that love was a weakness. He had reached this conviction from the opposite direction, though: he had seen how his fierce love for his parents had been held up to him as a prize to be claimed once he succeeded in the horrible deed that was set him. He knew that his heart was barely protected by some brittle bones and a thin layer of tissue. As such, he had done all he could to build thicker walls to protect it. He, like Harry, had seen the man he idolized fall from his high pedestal and turn into an ordinary one, with faults and weaknesses. Of course, she never verbalized that comparison to him, knowing he would balk at the idea of having anything besides her in common with Harry Potter. Unlike Harry, though, he had not used that disillusionment to strengthen his love: for family and friends, for hope, for justice, for life. While Harry had rebelled against the betrayal, defying it, Draco had succumbed to the despair, doing everything in his power to keep away the hurt.

But tonight, he had willingly dismantled those walls and even willingly pulled open the calcified cage to let her peer in. To possibilities.

Possibilities. Yes, that was a first step. An important one.

She sighed in contentment and smiled when she felt his arm tighten possessively about her waist as he mumbled unintelligibly into her hair.

This felt odd.

It was morning. Sunlight came dancing in with the warm breeze that parted the translucent cream curtains that hung over the window.

The rays hopped about the scattered dishware and cutlery on top of the small kitchen table, winking back wherever the eyes caught them. They seemed particularly drawn to the steaming cups of tea, twinkling merrily as the liquid was raised and imbibed.

He was having breakfast. With Hermione Granger. In her flat.

After spending the night.

If this was some sort of mind-fuck, he didn't want out. Did he just admit that? Ah, well. At least he was sure it hadn't been uttered aloud, given the warm, silky liquid swirling around his tongue.

He revelled in the great sense of calm that had settled about his shoulders just before he had lost consciousness. He had not slept so peacefully ever since ... ever since childhood, he supposed. Certainly, he had not had a carefree existence ever since the day he had been snubbed by the annoying, bespectacled, acclaimed saviour of their world. And the intervening years had only pushed his sense of equanimity further and further away until it felt unattainable.

Until last night.

He put a hand to his chest and marvelled. His heart beat steadily against his chest, and it felt warm and light. In a rare show of courage last night, he had not only asked to stay, he had unravelled the knotted bandages that he'd tied about his heart to keep it from exploding and shown it to her. But to his shock, instead of scars and unhealed wounds and pain, he discovered that she'd long ago reached past the jumble of bloodied textiles and woven a silken cocoon about that vital organ. It felt feather-light, smooth, but also secure. The sharpest weapons, the strongest hexes, the vilest words could never penetrate this armour she had built for him.

He had been a fool not to realize that he did not have to carve a place for her in his heart. She had found every niche and hidden corner inside him and settled in. To remove her was to tear the very fabric that kept him upright and mobile. And living.

He became aware of her quiet contemplation of him.

Gathering her in his arms, he drank the chocolate warmth of her eyes and kissed her. 


End file.
